How I Spent My Summer Vacation
by Celli
Summary: "Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles..." No, really. Well, maybe not the giants. Spoilers through the end of Season One.


Feedback: Yes, please.celli@fanfic101.com   
Category: Action. Humor. AU after "Almost Thirty Years."  
Rating: PG-13 for ass-kicking and swearing.  
Spoilers: Season One.  
Summary: "Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants,   
monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles..." No,   
really. Well, maybe not the giants.   
Archiving: Cover Me and our site (www.fanfic101.com).  
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various   
other people with lawyers. Not us. *sighs*   
  
Notes: Two things. First, this follows the events of "Almost   
Thirty Years" and was in fact written mostly between seasons   
one and two. Second, it was originally intended to be the   
first part of a longer story, but for various reasons we   
won't be able to finish it. So try to think of it as a   
standalone story with a very ambiguous ending. :)   
  
***  
  
How I Spent My Summer Vacation  
By JenC and Celli  
  
***  
"Hell is other people."--Jean-Paul Sartre  
***  
  
Jack:  
  
They call it 'solitary', which is bullshit. Oh, you don't   
see anyone, you don't get a radio, there's nothing to break   
the silence but the sound of your breathing. But you know--  
at least until your mind cracks, anyway--that you're never   
alone. Someone's watching, waiting for you to talk in your   
sleep, beat off, whatever gives them a place to stick the   
lever and move your world.  
  
And they tell you it's for your own good, which is also   
bullshit, at least in my case. They tell you that the bad   
boys can pick out a cop, an agent, with their eyes closed.   
And then it's a nasty accident in the showers, or a knife at   
dinner. Whatever.   
  
Anyone who got a good look at my file would know that if   
there was an inmate stupid enough to start a fight, I would   
finish it. Finish him.  
  
So they stuck me in solitary and waited for something to   
happen. They only made one miscalculation--they didn't   
expect me to adapt to it. The solitary life and I turned out   
to be a good fit.  
  
***  
  
Will Tippin awoke with his head pounding and his eyelids   
gummed shut. He was in so much pain that the ache seemed to   
extend beyond his body into the air around him. When he   
finally managed to crack open his one good eye--the other   
stubbornly refused to focus on anything, which the drugs   
still partying through his body told him to worry about   
later--he found himself in what looked to be a deserted   
doctor's office. The cupboards along the walls stood open   
and empty, the doors halfway off their hinges. The slow   
staccato of dripping water thudded into the sink from a   
leaky faucet. Shadows crowded the room, and the only light   
came from a single, intense lamp that illuminated Jack   
Bristow's graying hair.  
  
"Wha--where?" The questions for which he wanted answers   
slurred together.  
  
"You're awake. Good." Jack set aside whatever he'd been   
working on and turned to face Will. "There's a transport   
plane leaving for Honolulu in two hours. You will be on that   
flight. Your name--the name on this passport--" he picked up   
the document he'd been working on and flashed it in Will's   
general direction--"is Wallace Reina. You're from   
Sacramento, California. You sell Hondas for a living. You   
were on vacation here when your new girlfriend's ex decided   
to win her back."  
  
"Wait, wait, wait. Slow down."  
  
"We do not have time to take this slow, Tippin. I've had to   
pull strings to get you out of here."  
  
"Where's Sydney? You said she--"  
  
"Focus, Tippin. Right now this is about getting you out of   
Taiwan." Jack flipped the passport onto the desk and stood.  
  
"I'm all for that. But I want to know where Sydney is." He   
sat up, teeth gritted against the pain, and braced himself   
against the cracked vinyl of the table on which he'd been   
lying. "Last night--was it last night?--whatever--you said   
we were waiting for her. You said--"  
  
"That was last night. The plan has changed."   
  
Usually Jack Bristow's face had all the expressive quality   
of a hunk of cement, but Will thought he was learning to   
pick up the nuances. Either that, or the stuff the scary   
Chinese guy had given him was more powerful than he'd   
thought. He sucked in a breath, winced at the knifing pain   
in his ribs, and said, "You don't know where she is, do   
you?"  
  
"That's not your concern."  
  
"The hell it isn't. She came here to help me. We have to get   
her back. We have to--" He tried to struggle to his feet,   
and Jack pushed him down, none too gently.  
  
"I've read your work, and you're obviously not an idiot."   
Jack's tone conveyed an air of surprise. "So think this   
through. You can barely walk. You don't know the language--  
do you?"  
  
Will shook his head.  
  
"Then what good will you do me?"  
  
"I want to help."   
  
"You can help by getting out of here. I promised Sydney--"   
His face tightened, a brief show of anger or pain--"I gave   
my word I'd make sure you were safe. I will keep that   
promise."  
  
Will slid off the table and groaned when the jolt of his   
feet hitting the floor resounded through every nerve in his   
body. "I guess you'd better keep a good eye on me, then."  
  
"Mr. Tippin."  
  
"You might as well call me Will. Given the circumstances.   
So, Jack--can I call you Jack? You're not shooting me, so I   
guess we can be on a first-name basis--what's the plan?"  
  
"There is no *plan*."  
  
"That's not good. I thought you guys always had a plan. Do   
you know where she is?"  
  
"We have to get you to the plane."  
  
"No plane." Will tried to cross his arms, but something   
pulled in his shoulder so he lowered his hands to his sides   
again. "I'm going with you."  
  
"Got another cavity?"  
  
"God." He fought down a wave of nausea. "How can you be such   
a cold bastard?"  
  
"I'm the bastard who's going to keep you alive."  
  
Will bit his tongue, wishing he could call back the last   
words he'd spoken. "I'm sorry."  
  
"I know what I am." Jack pocketed the passport he'd been   
working on, checked the clip on his 9-millimeter and   
holstered it. "It doesn't matter. Last chance, Tippin--you   
should catch that flight."  
  
"I'm going with you."  
  
Jack sighed, but he only answered, "Fine."  
  
"You won't regret this."  
  
"I doubt that. Listen carefully, because I will only say   
this once. You will do exactly as I say. You will not argue.   
You will not hesitate. If at any time I feel you are   
endangering this mission, I will kill you. Is that clear?"  
  
"Crystal."   
  
"Wait here." He watched Jack sprint down a long hallway   
painted a dingy shade of green. The air smelled of piss and   
old medicine. At the end of the hall a barred door blocked   
the way. A black box about the size of Will's palm hung on   
the wall; Jack pushed a series of buttons, and the light at   
the top switched from red to green.   
  
"Motion detector," Jack said by way of explanation as he   
gestured for Will to follow him. "I didn't want any visitors   
to show up unannounced. From now on, keep silent. Don't even   
sneeze."  
  
Overwhelmed by the sudden urge to cough, Will nodded. The   
door opened, surprisingly quietly given the rust around its   
edges. Beyond was an alley, where light from the street   
shimmered on the oily surfaces of puddles. Jack studied   
both directions, then turned to the right and eased into the  
shadows. Will followed, his hand over his mouth.  
  
The alley kinked to the left, then broadened into a   
courtyard. In it stood the SUV Jack had been driving when   
he'd rescued Will.  
  
"Get in," Jack said, his voice pitched so low Will could   
barely hear it. "There's a change of clothes in the back,   
and a first aid kit. Get cleaned up."  
  
Will nodded and started to open the door when Jack hissed   
and spun around, his hand slipping under his coat.   
  
A figure stepped out of the shadows. A familiar figure,   
holding a gun. "It's about bloody time you showed up. Do   
you have any idea how long I've been waiting for you."  
  
Sark, Will realized. His heart sank.   
  
***  
  
Ben Devlin upended the manila envelope over his desk, and   
scowled at the note and tape that fell out. "What the hell   
are you up to, Jack?"  
  
The automated call that had reached him at his house an hour   
earlier had sounded like a crude attempt at telemarketing at   
first--so much so, he'd almost hung up before he noticed the   
code words embedded in the message. When translated, they   
conveyed the following: "Traitor within. Evidence obtained.   
Friday drop."  
  
He'd gone to the bookstore Jack had called the Friday drop,   
for no particular reason that Ben could ever fathom. There,   
he'd found this envelope, wedged behind a row of paperback   
romances.  
  
He turned the tape over in his hands, wishing he didn't have   
to know what was on it, wishing he could just put it back   
and pretend he'd never found it. As far as he'd risen in the   
CIA hierarchy, he still relied on instinct, and right now   
his gut screamed at him that he was holding career suicide   
in his hands--Jack's at least, if not his own as well.  
  
On the other hand, whatever squeamishness he'd felt as a   
young agent had gone the way of moral scruples, and so after   
a moment he dug a small tape player out of the chaos in his   
desk and slipped in Jack's message. He heard a ragged voice   
screaming curses; it took a moment to recognize that he was   
listening to Haladki. Then Jack cut in, his questions   
relentless. The sound of bones breaking.   
  
Devlin swallowed the taste of bile in his mouth. He'd been   
able to turn a blind eye to much of Jack's activity in the   
past few years; he had realized that the life of a double   
agent had twisted his old friend somehow, but the depth of   
the madness hadn't dawned on him until that moment.  
  
Then Haladki confessed to working for Khasinau.  
  
Devlin lowered his head into his hands. This in and of   
itself wouldn't clear Jack--his methods went well beyond   
what the CIA sanctioned--but it would help, especially when   
the agency brought in Haladki and--  
  
A single gunshot, then silence.  
  
"Damn it, Jack!"  
  
"I'm sorry, Ben." Jack's voice, slightly distorted, came out   
of the tape player, as if he'd heard Devlin. "I had to make   
sure. I had to . . ." His words trailed off, as if he   
realized that nothing he could say would fix this.  
  
Devlin shut off the tape and sat with his hands folded,   
pondering his next move. Finally he buzzed his assistant and   
told her to find Agent Vaughn.   
  
An hour later, he acknowledged the knock on his door, but to   
his surprise it was Agent Weiss, not Vaughn, who appeared   
when it opened.  
  
"What's going on?"  
  
Weiss was frowning. "Vaughn didn't show up this morning."  
  
"What do you mean?" As if he had to ask. "Did he call in   
sick?"  
  
"No call. And when I went by his place, his dog hadn't been   
fed. For a couple of days, at least, by the way the guy dug   
in when I found him some kibble."  
  
"God Almighty, would somebody tell me what the hell is going   
on?"  
  
"I think he's helping the Bristows."  
  
Devlin closed his eyes and shook his head. "My wife wanted   
to have a cookout this weekend."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Devlin stood and made his way to the safe in his office. He   
opened it and put the tape inside. "Jack Bristow has dumped   
a whole shitload of trouble in our laps."  
  
"So we bring him in." Weiss shifted from foot to foot. "I   
know what he's done is valuable, but in the interests of the   
agency . . ."  
  
"In the interests of the agency, we're going to have to   
clean this up."  
  
"What exactly are we dealing with? Sir," Weiss added   
belatedly.  
  
"Before anything else, we need to find out what this   
operation was Bristow kept talking about. He said he was   
trying to save someone's life. I need to know that someone's   
identity."  
  
"Sydney's?"  
  
"I'm guessing he would have told me if it was her."  
  
"But Vaughn--"  
  
"It's not outside the realm of possibility, I admit. Just   
see what you can find. If you value Vaughn's life, work   
alone. Fill me in as soon as you can." He tapped his watch.   
"We're on the clock, Weiss. You don't want to know what   
happens if we run out of time."  
  
"Yes, sir." Weiss fled.  
  
It was a risk, Devlin thought, as he watched the door close   
behind Weiss. But he had a feeling that when faced with a   
choice, the younger agent would do what he had done, would   
choose friendship over company loyalties.  
  
"He fed the dog," Devlin reminded himself. "That's a point   
in his favor."  
  
He went down to the file room and looked through everything   
he could find on the Bristows' latest activities, hoping to   
find a clue to their current whereabouts. Ordinarily he   
would have checked out the mass of files, but he didn't want   
anyone to know what he'd been doing. Paranoia, he told   
himself, could be a handy survival trait.  
  
***  
  
Sydney:  
  
When I was ten, I imagined that my mom would appear out of   
nowhere. "It's all a mistake," she'd say. "I didn't really   
die. I was sick, or lost, or kidnapped by pirates. But I'm   
home now, sweetie." Then Daddy would laugh out loud again,   
and everything would be perfect.  
  
When I was fifteen, I imagined that someone who looked just   
like my mom would appear out of nowhere. "It was all a   
mistake," she'd say. "I'm your aunt, and your mom wanted you   
to live with me, sweetie." Then Daddy would load my bags in   
her car, and everything would be better.  
  
Five months ago, I imagined that the CIA would capture my   
mom. "It was all a mistake," she'd say. "I'm not really   
evil. Your father framed me, and I never killed anyone,   
sweetie." Then Daddy would go to jail, and everything would   
make sense.  
  
***  
  
"Sweetie," Irina said for possibly the thousandth time.   
Sydney gritted her teeth together.  
  
It was bad enough that she'd let slip with the "Mom?" the   
first time she had seen her. It was a bit of a shock,   
that's all, but nothing to lose her training over. So for   
the next twenty-some hours, Sydney had concentrated with all   
her might on everything but her and the sick feeling Irina   
caused in the pit of Sydney's stomach. This was a capture   
and interrogation like any other. She'd simulated these a   
thousand times back when she began at SD-6, and in the seven   
years since she'd been on both sides of the table several   
times. There were rules to be followed. Important rules.  
  
"We can save your father. Daddy's here, isn't he, baby? We   
can keep him safe."  
  
Like not screaming in agony at the sound of her voice.  
  
"And there's your friends back in Los Angeles. Francie, and   
Dixon, and your handler. Michael, wasn't it?"  
  
*Too late, you bitch. You've already killed him.*  
  
Sydney had tried thinking of Vaughn at first, but once her   
traitorous brain had connected his death with his father's,   
she'd had to shut that down. So she thought of her father   
instead. What had he said when she'd asked him to go after   
Will...? "While I might look at scenarios more strategically   
than emotionally, you could learn something from my   
experience." She would go to him, after all this was over,   
and say, "I did what you told me to, Daddy. I was   
strategic. I was strong."  
  
She'd built up quite an image as the hours wore on and the   
persuasion turned to bribery turned to threats--thinly   
disguised, but still threats. She pictured her Dad standing   
next to her, smiling down at her--well, that wasn't   
accurate--with that little not-quite-a-smile he'd worn only   
a few times. Will was standing next to him, with his hands   
in his pockets, rocking back on his heels and blinking   
behind his glasses. And when she thought she could bear it,   
Vaughn was behind the two of them, sitting on a box and   
bouncing his heels off it just as he had when they would sit   
at the warehouse and talk. (When had they done that? Not   
very often. But she could remember with frightening detail   
each time they had.) Irina was still there, somewhere. But   
Sydney focused on the strange triumvirate in front of her   
and closed her senses to everything else.  
  
Finally Irina gave up. "Take her to the plane," Sydney   
heard her say in Russian to someone outside the door. "I   
can be more...effective...at our headquarters."  
  
And although Sydney didn't so much as change her breathing,   
the look in her eyes would have warned anyone who knew her.   
*I can be effective too. Mom.*  
  
***  
  
Jack:  
  
She makes me weak. Or perhaps I should say, the love of her   
weakens me.   
  
As long as she remained only a mouth to be fed, a back to be   
clothed, a duty to fulfill, I could be strong. Ruthless.  
  
As long as she hated me, I could keep her at a distance. I   
could ignore who she was, who she was becoming. I could turn   
a blind eye to the memories invoked by the curve of her   
smile, by the rise and fall of her voice.  
  
When Laura died--or as I have found out, when she left--and   
all her secrets began oozing into the light, I cut her out   
of my thoughts. Everything I could find that reminded me of   
her, from the ring on my finger to the notes on the   
refrigerator went into an incinerator. Only our child   
remained.  
  
I let Sydney blame me for her mother's death. I let her hate   
me, let all the rage crash on the shell I'd built. It tested   
my resolve, and my resolve was not found wanting.  
  
And when she stopped trying to break through, I told myself   
I felt nothing but relief. She would be safe. She would not   
be part of my world, of the filth, of the lies. Safe.  
  
Even when the truth began to emerge, when I discovered that   
she had chosen (or been chosen for) the same darkness I had,   
I told myself that we could walk our own paths. She couldn't   
hate me any more for what I'd become than for what I'd been.   
And then . . .  
  
I no longer mock the stories about a parent's instincts.   
There are some things more powerful than self-preservation,   
a loyalty greater than any other. And because I could not   
let her die, I find that we are once more in each other's   
orbit, pulled by an emotional gravity for which neither of   
us was prepared. Which, I suspect, she wanted as little as I   
did at first.  
  
When did it happen? I think back on the past few months, the   
collision of her life and mine which some would call fate,   
and I do not see where I crossed the line. I cannot find the   
moment when I began to want what I'd rejected so long ago.  
  
The man I was would never have risked so much for an   
expendable. I have made this journey, I have abandoned my   
old life, I have killed a man--and all for an individual who   
is no longer necessary for my task, an individual who no   
doubt will prove more a liability than an asset. Because   
*she* cares for him. Because I have given my word to keep   
him safe.  
  
Because, God help me, what she thinks of me matters. And I   
do not want to be the one to make my little girl cry.  
  
***  
  
"Hey! He shot me!" Will tried to step closer, but Jack   
motioned him off. "What's going on here?"  
  
"I told you to keep quiet." Jack turned to Sark. "He has a   
point. What do you want?"  
  
For a moment, there was silence in the courtyard. The   
distant sound of sirens and honking horns drifted in. The   
air smelled of rain. "Still babysitting, I see." Sark made a   
show of putting up his gun.   
  
"I have no interest in trading quips with you. Explain   
yourself." Jack turned his back on Sark, which struck Will   
as a dangerous move, but apparently the show of contempt had   
an effect.  
  
"I presume you do have an interest in your daughter's   
current location?"  
  
Jack froze. "I have no reason to do business with you. Get   
in the car, Will."  
  
"Wait! He says he knows where--"  
  
"Get in the car. We have no reason to trust him. He has no   
good reason to be here--he's chosen sides already." Jack   
climbed in and started the SUV. Will hesitated.  
  
Sark leaned in the open door, his voice raised over the   
growl of the engine. "It seems I am privy to too much   
information, Mr. Bristow. Khasinau's boss--"  
  
Jack killed the engine. "What did you say?"  
  
"I thought that would catch your attention. It certainly   
gave me a start."  
  
"Khasinau's . . . boss." Jack drummed his fingers on the   
steering wheel. "Start talking."  
  
"Until a few hours ago, I was sure that Khasinau was the one   
known as 'The Man'." Sark's gaze roved the shadows, as if he   
expected something to jump out at him any moment. "Can't we   
talk about this while you drive?"  
  
"Tell me what you know now, or you're on your own."  
  
Will, who had climbed in the passenger seat, leaned over and   
whispered, "We aren't going to help him, are we? He gave me   
to the evil dentist guy."  
  
Jack ignored him. "Time's running out, Sark."  
  
"Faster than you know. All right, all right. I don't know   
what the hell your people were up to, but they flooded the   
lower levels of the lab."  
  
"Flooded? That explosive device shouldn't have been powerful   
enough to rupture the mains. And the Rambaldi device--" He   
swore, an impressively inventive display. "How big was it?"  
  
"I never saw it. But from the amount of equipment they took   
in . . ." Sark shrugged. "Damn big."  
  
"What's the situation now?"  
  
"The Man has your daughter."  
  
"Khasinau has Sydney?" Will shook Jack's arm. "We don't have   
time for this. They could be killing her."  
  
"We need to know what's going on. Keep talking," he told   
Sark. "You said Sydney's a captive?" There was a note in his   
voice, hope or amusement, that Will couldn't read.  
  
"When news of the explosion reached me, I went to   
headquarters. I saw something I wasn't supposed to see, and   
they came after me. I need your help."  
  
"What did you see?"  
  
"Let me in." Sark tugged at the rear door of the car. In the   
faint light, the pallor of his face gave him the look of a   
ghost. A note of fear threaded his voice. "I saw Sydney with   
The Man. But The Man wasn't Khasinau. The Man wasn't even a   
man, if you follow me."  
  
"Not really. Stop playing games, Sark." Jack started the car   
again.  
  
"She calls herself Irina Derevko. But your daughter called   
her 'Mom'."  
  
"Holy shit." Will collapsed into his seat. "He's joking,   
right? Tell me he's joking."  
  
Jack reached back and unlocked the rear door of the car.   
"Get in and shut up," he told Sark.   
  
Sark did as he was told, and the SUV squealed out of the   
courtyard as Will struggled with his seatbelt.  
  
***  
  
Vaughn was on the ceiling.  
  
He passed the time composing an explanation for Sydney.  
  
*Well, there was this wave of water--oh, wait, you were   
there for that. Anyway, I got up towards the surface and   
grabbed the nearest, well, anything, which happened to be   
this ceiling beam. I was going to drop down into the water   
when it started receding*--he waved aside mental-Sydney's   
Noah's Ark jokes--*but it just sort of vanished and there   
wasn't time. So--here I am!*  
  
It was a fairly lame explanation, considering the amount of   
time he'd had to work on it. He'd managed to wiggle around   
until he was squished into the space between the top of the   
beam and the ceiling itself, but there was too much room   
between it and the next beam; he couldn't move across   
towards a wall. And he could drop down--which would   
probably break several bones, plus take him straight into   
camera range and get him captured. *Shit.* And he kept   
falling asleep; add that to the lump on the back of his   
head, and he was a little woozy.  
  
He had a brief mental image of himself, treed like a damn   
cat, then another image of Sydney beneath him, blue hair and   
all, calling "Here, kitty kitty!" and nearly fell off   
anyway, he was laughing so hard.  
  
He sank his teeth into the leather of his jacket to muffle   
his giggles and tried to calm down. Okay. He had to get   
out of there. He needed to get to the rendezvous point and   
find out if Sydney had made it. Otherwise he'd have to come   
back in here and kick some ass. *Yeah, right.* He'd bring   
Jack back with him. He'd never seen Agent Bristow, Senior   
in action, but he had a feeling he would up the ass-kicking   
quotient quite a bit.  
  
Now he just had to get down. *Dammit. What would Sydney   
do? She'd be out of here already. She'd pull a little rope   
ladder out of her bra and be out of here. Plus, she'd never   
have gotten caught by the giant Super Soaker to begin with.*  
  
While he was still trying to figure a way out, plus update   
the lame explanation (mental-Sydney was still snickering)   
and come up with a better name for "The Circumference" (the   
current winners were "Tiger Woods' wet dream of a golf ball"   
and "The Big Red Dodge Ball of Doom"), he heard footsteps   
from down the hall. He scrunched around to look down, and   
saw a flash of blue hair.  
  
Well, at least he knew where Sydney was. Although it looked   
as though the ass-kicking was up to him. He took the time   
to send a brief prayer skyward, then got ready to jump.  
  
***  
  
Weiss:  
  
I don't want you to think I've changed my mind in the   
slightest.  
  
Mike may hate me for the rest of his life, but that doesn't   
change the fact that I'm *right,* goddammit. Every person   
that SD-6 kills while he's off chasing wildfowl is--well,   
it's not his fault. But he should feel guilty about it.  
  
And Bristow--if she hadn't tied his dick in a knot and cut   
off all circulation to his brain--she's a good kid, you   
know? I'm just tempted to wear a garlic chain and a cross   
every time I go near her. Her effect on men is not to be   
taken lightly. Even her father, the epitome of the Company   
man, would do anything for her.  
  
Which is why I'm standing at Bristow Junior's door when it's   
the last place I want to be. With Tippin gone and our   
double agents possibly exposed, there's only one person left   
in LA who might know where I can find them before they   
destroy everything.  
  
***  
  
"Syd? It's Francie. Um, are you on a work trip? You   
didn't leave a note or a message or anything. Look, Will's   
gone too, and when I called his office, they were-I dunno.   
Weird. Syd? Just call me, okay? Even if you haven't heard   
from Will. Leave me a message. Or an email. Smoke   
signals? Singing telegram? Something. Damn, that's the   
door. *Call me*, Sydney."  
  
***  
  
Weiss heard footsteps approaching the door. "Hello?" He   
thumped on it again when it didn't open.  
  
"Who is it?"  
  
"Francine Calfo? This is Detective Wallace with the LAPD."   
He held the badge up to the peephole. "This is concerning   
Sydney Bristow and Will Tippin?"   
  
She yanked the door open. "What about them?"  
  
"Ah..."That had been easier than he'd planned. Weiss   
discarded the long convoluted story and gestured towards his   
car. "Could you come with me, please, Miss Calfo?"  
  
She hesitated. "What's going on?"  
  
He noticed movement to his left. Three men in suits were   
getting out of a suspiciously bland car. Shit. No time for   
the long story now. "I need you to identify a body."  
  
He caught her as she stumbled forward. "Wha-who? A body?   
Oh, God!" The suits were looking their way. Weiss half-  
carried, half-hurried her to his car.  
  
"Put your seatbelt on."  
  
She just gaped at him.  
  
Weiss shrugged and threw the car into reverse. The suits   
were already running for their car.  
  
"You're going kind of fast," she said as he took the first   
corner at 35.  
  
He shot into the left lane without even looking behind him.   
"Seat belt, Miss Calfo. Now."  
  
"What the hell is going on?" He could see her fingers   
shaking on the belt before he turned his attention back to   
his mirrors. "What happened to Will and Syd?"  
  
Damn. There they were. He braked hard and screeched into a   
U-turn.  
  
"What the *hell*? Stop!"  
  
"That would be a bad idea, ma'am." He pulled out his cell   
phone and dialed. Where was that damn on-ramp? He was   
headed in the wrong direction. "Tanya? It's Weiss. Get me   
Devlin."  
  
"You said your name was Wallace!"  
  
"Shh. Hello, sir. I've got her. Just a few steps ahead of   
their guys. No, sir, I think after what happened to Tippin-  
" he gestured her quiet-"that a safe house is the last place   
to go. I have a plan. Yes, sir. I'll call you back after   
we ditch them."  
  
Weiss closed the phone, gunned the car around a slow-moving   
pickup, and broke the speed limit halfway up the ramp.  
  
She grabbed his arm. She had long nails.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"Not to distract you or anything, but who are you and what   
the hell is going on?"  
  
"I'm Eric Weiss. CIA. And we-" he cut between two buses   
and jumped into the HOV lane-"are outrunning the bad guys.   
Cool, huh?"  
  
"Where's Sydney and Will?"  
  
"We're working on it."  
  
"The CIA."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Oh, God." Suddenly her fingers tightened on his arm.   
"Hey!"  
  
"What? Ow! I'm in a chase scene here, do you mind?"  
  
"You showed me a fake badge!"  
  
"What? No, it was a real badge." Weiss smirked and started   
looking for an off-ramp with a car dealership nearby. "It   
just wasn't *my* badge."  
  
***  
  
When the guards came into view, Vaughn almost laughed. Only   
three? Yes, they had guns, and yes, Sydney's hands were   
shackled behind her back, but still.  
  
He waited until the last possible second before dropping   
down on them. He smushed one pretty solidly and caught the   
second with the edge of his boot.  
  
Fortunately, Syd took out the third guy with her usual   
finesse (spin, kick, jump, kick again...owww), because   
Vaughn was busy trying to stand. Every muscle in his body   
was kinked the wrong way from lying on that beam. And his   
head...yeow.  
  
"Vaughn!" Sydney was staring at him. "I thought--but the   
wat--"  
  
"Yeah, I thought too," Vaughn said grimly. "I'll tell you   
later. Does one of these guys have the keys to your cuffs?"  
  
"Maybe--" Sydney turned back to the one she'd knocked out.  
  
Vaughn caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He   
turned just as the second guard charged Sydney. Vaughn   
didn't even think about it; as soon as the guy's back was to   
him he kicked *hard* between his legs.  
  
The guard made one small squeak and dropped like a rock.   
Vaughn and Sydney stared at him, then at each other.  
  
Vaughn leaned his head onto one hand. "I know that was a   
girly move," he said faintly, "but you have to admit that   
I'm the chick in this pairing."  
  
Sydney just stared at him some more. "Vaughn, are you   
okay?"  
  
Vaughn leaned forward and vomited onto the man he'd just   
kicked.  
  
"Uh...let's go," Sydney said finally.  
  
***  
  
Sydney and Vaughn came tearing out of the back of the   
building as Jack's SUV squealed to a halt. The back popped   
open.  
  
"Hurry!" a jumble of male voices said from inside the car.   
Sydney and Vaughn blinked at each other and jumped in. The   
car was moving again before they even closed the door.  
  
"Daddy?" Sydney said, trying to get her legs under herself   
and not bounce too hard off Vaughn. "Did you get Will?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Is he okay?"  
  
The figure in the passenger seat shifted, but didn't turn   
around. "Yes," Jack said again. "We'll talk soon, Sydney."  
  
She caught the implied "shut up" and subsided, biting the   
corner of her mouth that wasn't abraded and raw. Vaughn's   
hand fumbled out and settled on her ankle.  
  
After a few minutes of trying to pull her brain back   
together, Sydney finally noticed the extra person in the   
back seat. "Uh..." she said in their ear.  
  
Sark turned around and smirked at her.  
  
Sydney sucked in a breath. Vaughn tensed beside her.   
"Jack?" he asked in a higher than usual voice. "Is it my   
concussion, or is that son of a bitch Sark in this car with   
us?"  
  
"You have a concussion?" Jack asked dryly.  
  
Sark smirked some more. Sydney glared at him. "Daddy? Can   
I kill him, please?"  
  
"We'll talk about it later, honey."  
  
***  
  
It was very loud outside the dingy motel room, and very   
quiet inside. Will was half-lying on one of the double   
beds; Sydney sat next to him, staring at him with a stricken   
expression on her face. Sark was lounging near the other   
bed, examining the cracked lamp on the wall and making a   
production of ignoring the gun Vaughn was pointing at him.  
  
All four came to attention when Jack re-entered the room.  
  
He dropped his cell phone on the table and put one hand   
briefly to his forehead.  
  
"That bad?" Sydney said.  
  
"Immeasurably worse. The only person in this room not   
considered a fugitive by the CIA was Tippin."  
  
"Was? What did I do?"  
  
"Your insurance policy was published."  
  
"My--oh, shit." Will sagged back onto the bed, wincing at   
even that soft impact.  
  
"What's he talking about?" Sydney asked him.  
  
"My SD-6 article."  
  
"Your *what*?" Sydney, Vaughn, and Sark shouted at the same   
time.  
  
"I don't want to talk about it."  
  
"You don't have to," Jack said. "I can read about it in   
today's paper."  
  
"Oh, God," Sydney said.  
  
Sark shook his head. "She pulled it off. I don't believe   
it. Derevko actually pulled it off."  
  
"Shut up." Vaughn shoved him. "Just--just don't talk."  
  
Sydney reached over and grabbed her father's hand.   
"Francie! They'll go after--"  
  
"She's fine. Agent Weiss has her in protective custody.   
Other trusted agents have been dispatched to move your   
parents and sister, Will."  
  
"Thank you," Will said faintly.  
  
"What about us?" Vaughn asked.  
  
"That's still under review," Jack said. "There's the matter   
of my cover and Sydney's, but in some cases charges will   
likely be filed." He carefully avoided Sydney's eyes.   
"Devlin's consulting with Langley--"  
  
His phone rang. Jack let out a breath and picked it up.   
"Bristow." Then he stiffened. "Arvin?"  
  
Everyone in the room stilled. Vaughn and Will were actually   
holding their breath.  
  
"Tippin? I don't know where he is. We've discussed   
this...his article?" A long pause. "Dear God. Well, how   
much damage? That's good. No. No, I don't know. I'll ask   
Sydney. I'm picking her up..." He consulted his watch.   
"...for lunch in a few minutes. Yes. Tell her what?   
Arvin, are you sure? Yes, of course you are. Good luck."  
  
He pushed the "end" button and stared at the phone in his   
hands.  
  
"Jack?" Vaughn asked.  
  
He held up a hand. "Wait." Then he dialed another number.   
"Devlin? It's Bristow. Arvin Sloane just called me. The   
Alliance has ordered SD-6 into a blind shutdown. Yes. Yes.   
I don't know how long. Do you want us to come in...? All   
right. I'll tell them. Yes." He hung up.  
  
A short, hoarse laugh broke the silence. Everyone gaped at   
Jack. He was shaking his head ruefully. "I'll be damned.   
I will be damned."  
  
"That's what I hear," Sark said.  
  
Will looked at Sydney. "What's a blind shutdown?"  
  
"It's, um, a last-ditch resort if the security of SD-6 were   
to ever be compromised. The lower floors of Credit Dauphine   
are locked down. All current missions are terminated. The   
agents take up their cover jobs full-time, and absolutely   
nothing suspicious takes place while the Security sections   
of the other SD-6 branches attempt to neutralize the   
threat."  
  
"SD-6 *shuts down*?" Vaughn shook his head.  
  
"It's never been anything but a theory," Jack said. "The   
equivalent of that C-4 in the columns. To stop all   
operations like this will cost untold millions."  
  
"So that's it?" Will asked. "We go back to LA and you two   
play banker while the CIA tries to arrest you and SD-6 tries   
to kill me?"  
  
"Not quite. The Devlin and Sloane both agree that Sydney   
and I are too close to you and your article. They want us   
out of sight until this blows over."  
  
"Hiding?" said Vaughn.  
  
"In Taipei?" said Will.  
  
"What about me?" said Sark.  
  
Sydney just stared.  
  
Jack laughed again--everyone flinched--then rubbed his   
forehead again. "All right. Let's get started. Sydney,   
where's the bag I brought in from the car?"  
  
She dug it out from beneath the bed and passed it to him.  
  
"Vaughn--Vaughn, put the gun down. Thank you. Take these."  
  
Vaughn looked at the passport and tickets. "New York?"  
  
"Yes, you and Sydney will travel together. Sydney, once you   
reach New York, take this key to the 47th Street YMCA.   
Ditch these IDs entirely; the new ones are untraceable by   
either SD-6 or the CIA."  
  
"Where do we go from there?" Sydney asked.  
  
"You'll find out in New York. There's a Hotmail account in   
with the other information; I'll contact you when it's safe   
to return to Los Angeles.  
  
"Where will you be?" Sydney moved closer to Will. "Daddy--  
"  
  
"We'll be fine. Sydney." Jack leaned forward. "I'll keep   
Will safe. I promise."  
  
Sydney blinked away tears. "Keep yourself safe, too."  
  
Jack nodded.  
  
"What about me?" Sark demanded.  
  
"Oh, there will be a team waiting at the airport to escort   
you to Langley."  
  
"You can't be serious."  
  
"Oh, but I am," Jack said.  
  
"I am not walking willingly into your headquarters. You'll   
kill me."  
  
"Maybe." The corners of Jack's mouth turned up slightly.   
"But if you'd like, I can handcuff you to the bed and use   
the phone here before we leave. Do you think 'The Man'   
would take a call from her ex-husband?"  
  
They stared at each other for a long moment before Sark   
cleared his throat. "So, when do we leave?"  
  
--the end-- 


End file.
